


the rage of an angel fallen

by The_IPRE



Category: Campaign (Podcast)
Genre: (in that they are a fallen angel), Hot Gable Rights, Minor Character Death, Thank You To My Patron The Bronker, religious trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28525818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_IPRE/pseuds/The_IPRE
Summary: “Voxes,” they say, the way they wouldYoungbloodorMariner. The way that they once might have growledTravis Matagot, although that time is long since past. “I’ve heard that you speak to angels.”“Who are you-” The second man’s indignation is cut off by the stranger.“Well. What do you have to say?”
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	the rage of an angel fallen

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to the uwuru for the inspiration!

Three men sit in a room. They are all powerful, though each believes himself to be the most so. They each insist that they know the truth, and it is simple coincidence that this is what is most beneficial to himself. They all say that they speak to angels. 

This is not quite the truth.

It soon will be.

The three men sit around a round table, and they have been sitting there for hours. A web of arguments and deals and schemes have formed between them, structured enough that it can almost be seen glimmering in the gold light from the window.

A sharp noise plucks against one of the strands, and the first man cocks his head, sparing a glance towards the shut door. The noise drags, cutting into the attention of the second man, and the third takes notice of their silences.

The men would not appreciate how similar their careful frowns are as they all look to the door, three sets of brows furrowing and three sets of fingers tapping and three sets of shoulders tensing against their owners' better judgement.

For a moment, there is silence, the world still and holding its breath in witness.

The first man looks to the second, who looks to the third, who curls his lip. “ _Manos_ ,” he says, the way one might say _interns_ or _raccoons_. “As I was saying-”

The others are saved from once more hearing the man’s droning argument as the door is kicked in, splintered wood scattering across the stone floor. 

The broken doorway frames an imposing figure, and as the sawdust stays suspended in the air, the men notice three things. 

The first: a bronze mask covers a face that is equally impassive, as unmoving as the stone they stand upon.

The second: a sword that is longer than they are tall is held with a grace that speaks to centuries of practice, hilt settled lightly into a palm that was made to hold it. 

The third: a coat with a prophecy sewn into the lining settles back into place around them, purple and bold and impossible to overlook.

“ _Voxes_ ,” they say, the way they would _Youngblood_ or _Mariner_. The way that they once might have growled _Travis Matagot_ , although that time is long since past. “I’ve heard that you speak to angels.”

“Who are you-” The second man’s indignation is cut off by the stranger.

“Well. What do you have to say?” 

The first man’s eyes widen, taking in the way the stranger’s skin seems to thin in places, ghosts of bones and imperceptible pupils warping underneath. The second man’s jaw drops, catching sight of the glinting flicker of feathers around the stranger, mangled wings that could not possibly exist arcing around them in defiance of the fact. The third man pushes his chair back, finally recognizing the stranger for what they are.

A fallen angel stands before them all, and previously important bickerings about doctrine grow pale and sunbleached in their light.

The fallen takes a step forward, and their sword scrapes along the ground, casting up sparks that hurt to gaze upon. 

“I am listening.”

Their slow advance says otherwise, afternoon sun glancing off of the copper of their mask in a suggestion of an executioner’s smile. The third man stumbles back from his chair, nodding his head as though he is unsure whether to bow or offer them tithes.

Their grip on the hilt of their sword tightens, fingers rolling in a practiced motion. The second man shakes in his seat, captured in the thrall of feathers he has no right to see. The glinting eyes pin him in place, and he can not move.

The first man puts on a slick grin to still his darting eyes, and he offers the angel a chair.

They do not take it.

* * *

Outside, a young boy listens to the sounds of bloodied vengeance with an expression that isn’t as concerned as one would expect it to be. “Should we...do something?”

A man leans against the wall beside him, pulling at a loose string from his fingerless gloves. “Oh no.” His impassive voice is drowned out. “Please. Stop.” He echoes the words from inside the room flatly, and shrugs when they do not stop. “Should’ve known, they never listen to me.”

* * *

Inside, later, the men’s web of complex designs has been carved to nothingness, and in the center stands the fallen. Their head is bowed, and their sword is bloodied, and their lost and found and reforged wings remember what they once were.

Their shoulders are still, and their face is hidden. If a tear were to drop from their chin to the floor, it will remain unnoticed.

Once again, they are surrounded by carnage of their own creation.

This time, they will remember it.

Gable turns on their heel and walks from the room.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave a comment or kudos, or come talk to me on tumblr at [the-ipre](https://the-ipre.tumblr.com)!
> 
> potential names of the voxes included mario, brutor, and bowser


End file.
